My old dog knew how to forget unkind words and raised voices.
He always forgave being left behind, didn’t hold a grudge.
Instead he’d greet me with a wag and a silly dog smile.
After you left us behind, a tender look from his chocolate eyes helped me forget, too.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
“Brake before the curve,” her mother always told her in mountainous terrain.
Senior year, she met him in philosophy class, slept with him when he mentioned love.
“We’re too young to get serious,” he said one night. Permanent goodbye.
Spring semester, he was engaged.
His words were code. Broke her.
C.G. Thompson has two stories in the recently released TL;DR Press’ Women’s Anthology: Carrying Fire. Other stories and poems have appeared in Yalobusha Review, Prime Number Magazine, Fictive Dream, Jersey Devil Press, and Redheaded Stepchild, among others.
Is it finally over? Whatever this was?
Not dating, not friendship… It’s giving me pause.
I am angry. Hurt. But not that upset.
I wonder, was it love? And will I forget?
Not that long ago, I seem to recall,
Still had that nice flutter feeling,
Do you? At all?
Michelle is an award-winning author and poet. She is a contributor in the most recent Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of Canada, and a quarter finalist in the 2017 ScreenCraft Short Screenplay contest. Her writing has appeared in The Globe and Mail, (one of Canada’s National newspapers) and a number of local magazines and newspapers including The Briar Crier, Total Sports, Voice of the Farmer, Arts Talk and Focus 50 Plus. Her short story “Lightning Strikers” (also featured on Commuter Lit) was made into a series in the Focus 50 + Newspaper because fans asked for more! This year, Michelle won the Ontario Writers Conference Story Starter Contest in two categories. You can find her online at commuterlit.com, fiftywordstories.com, femininecollective.com, michelledinnick.com and @MichelleDinnick.
Rage thrust brush through canvas.
A puncture through three days’ work: portrait of she who had gathered her stuff while he slept. Gone… yet she persisted like thallium poisoning.
Almost serenely he deposited the brush – loaded with the colour of his crappy life – beside the open tube of Prussian Blue.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
He saw himself laid out on the table, his heart in one place, his backbone and manhood in various containers.
It was hard to get a word in edgewise as his two ex-girlfriends kept dissecting him into little pieces.
Now he finally understood what “We can still be friends” meant!
Connell continues to be upbeat about writing his biography even if others keep refusing to do it for him. However, he knows someone will eventually take up the mantle which will then free him somewhat to concentrate on getting someone to write his 50-word stories as well.
This table, the wine, bread and cheese—that’s nonfiction; calling it “dinner” is, perhaps, a fiction.
Your silence, my tears, these trembling hands: nonfiction. Our last meal together: fiction.
Your attraction to someone else—OK, we’ll call that nonfiction. But the idea you no longer love me… must be fiction.
Nathan Alling Long lives in Philadelphia and can be found at blogs.stockton.edu/longn. His collection of fifty flash fictions, The Origin of Doubt, was published by Press 53 in March 2018.
Iris knew she had made the right choice, because after two weeks she didn’t miss him. It felt better to stretch out in bed, and she didn’t have to watch sports anymore.
The only thing that bothered her was the photos he had taken and the secrets that he knew.
Dan Shushko wrote this story.
“It’s good to see you.”
“I hoped we could talk.”
Wished we didn’t have to.
“It’s been too long.”
Not long enough.
Leaning against the air-hockey table, shoes white against the slushy stain, she replies:
“It’s been two days, Tyler. And I only came to get my backpack.”
Kerry teaches English with the comfortable assuredness that he is almost often not wrong about it.
“Goodbye Patrick.” Cindy moved in for a half-hug and cheek-peck, but he held her until she pulled away.
Patrick fit bulging duffel bags into her rusty Mazda, shut the hatchback, then stepped away as she reversed and turned.
The car crunched down the gravel driveway, red taillights glowing in accusation.
Susan Wackerbarth is enjoying her foray into flash fiction so much that she may never go back to writing novels.